


Filling Up the Space

by luxover



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:36:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want the EPL,” Stevie says, and it seems so stupid at first, so ridiculous, because that’s not something that can be divvied up like furniture or kitchenware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filling Up the Space

It starts when Stevie kisses Xabi and then realizes that he just doesn’t want to be kissing him anymore. He’s got Xabi pushed up against the wall, shirtless, and his fingers are tucked into the waistband of Xabi’s sweatpants.

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” he says.

Xabi leans forward, kisses Stevie on the corner of his mouth and just underneath his jaw.

“Me too,” he says, and then he stretches the neck of Stevie’s t-shirt, bites at his collarbone.

Stevie tugs at Xabi’s hair, and that’s that.

 

“I want the EPL,” Stevie says, and it seems so stupid at first, so ridiculous, because that’s not something that can be divvied up like furniture or kitchenware.

Only then Xabi says, “Okay,” and, “I want La Liga, then,” and, “I want Alvaro, too.”

Stevie lets out a laugh that’s more just air out of his nose than anything else, and he says, “You can’t  _have_  Alvaro,” but they both know what Xabi means by it, and they both know that Alvaro’s as good as gone from Anfield.

He says, “I won’t let you take Fernando. We need him.”

Xabi smiles a little, one of those small smiles that used to drive Stevie crazy because he didn’t know what they meant—still doesn’t know what they mean— and he says, “Fernando loves Liverpool too much for me to even try.” He probably means something else by that, but Stevie doesn’t know what and can’t be bothered to try to figure it out.

They sit in Xabi’s kitchen, after that, cups of coffee and an omelet between them, and they hunch over an old atlas that they found a few months back, back when things weren’t really good, but weren’t exactly bad, either.

“I want New York City,” Steive says. They’re making a list.

“That’s ridiculous,” Xabi says. “Have you ever even been to New York City?”

Stevie doesn’t respond, because if Xabi doesn’t know the answer to that by now, maybe there’s a reason they’re breaking up.

“Fine,” Xabi says. “I want Los Angeles, then. And Germany.”

“How is that fair? I only asked for one city,” Stevie points out, and it’s funny, watching Xabi flounder at that, watching him try to find the words to say. Their shoulders press together and Xabi’s skin is warm.

“You don’t even like Germany,” Xabi says.

“I like Berlin.”

“Fine,” Xabi says, and he sounds frustrated. “We’ll split Germany; you can have Berlin.”

“Fine,” Stevie says, and he tries his hardest not to smile because he is winning.

 

When training starts the next season, Stevie laces up his boots and walks into the middle of the pitch. The guys are all there, walking out from the locker room and stretching and complaining about how fucking early it is, and Xabi is totally and miraculously absent. Stevie knew he would be—followed the news on his transfer almost obsessively—but he couldn’t quite let himself believe it until just now. He wants to laugh and he feels like his ribcage is too small for his heart.

He places a football on the ground just outside the center circle and kicks it, aiming for the goal at the opposite end of the pitch; it takes a bad bounce, jumps to the left a bit, and rolls just wide of the post.

“Who do you think you are?” Agger yells out. “Xabi fucking Alonso?”

Stevie just keeps staring at the goal, his hands on his hips. He ignores Agger; he’s not going to let him ruin this.

 

When it comes time for the Champions League draw, Liverpool is put into Pot 1. They dodge a bullet, there, because that means that they can’t face off with Barcelona or Milan—not in the group stages, anyways—but it leaves a lot of room for error, for Real Madrid.

He watches at home in his empty house, Carra on the couch next to him as they blow through a six-pack of beer.

Carra says, “What’s gotten into you?”

Stevie says, “I just want to win again,” and Carra understands it, believes it, even though it’s a complete lie.

In the end, none of it matters at all; Liverpool draws Fiorentina, Lyon, and Debrecen, and Stevie can rest easy.

 

Liverpool loses. Of course Liverpool loses. They’ve been playing like shit and Stevie feels like shit, and he wants to just get away.

And so he does.

He buys airplane tickets for the next break he’s got and he goes to Venice, buys some gelato and wanders the canals, rests his forearms on the railings lining the water and squints up into the sun.

Xabi’s there; he says, “Venice is mine, Steven. We agreed.”

“I didn’t fucking agree to that!” Stevie says. He didn’t—wouldn’t—because he likes the gelato too much.

“You took Rome, and so I took Venice,” Xabi says, and Stevie is just so fucking frustrated with him, because Xabi didn’t take Venice, and how the fuck could he think something like that anyways? It makes Stevie glad that everything’s done between them, because all this is doing is making Stevie want to punch him in the mouth.

“I did not take Rome,” Stevie says. “ _You_  took Rome. So if you could leave, that would be great.”

Xabi looks at him for a minute and doesn’t say anything. Stevie doesn’t like that and wants him to stop, but he’s not sure it’s all that much better when he leans forward and places his elbows on the railing and looks out at the water, same as Stevie.

“You’re sloppy in the middle,” Xabi finally says, and Stevie knows what he means, wants to say,  _Hey, fuck you,_  because Xabi doesn’t get to say things like that anymore. “And Carra’s good, but he can’t do his job when he’s trying to do Emiliano’s, too.”

Stevie says, “Get off of my side of the country.”

Xabi doesn’t respond to that, just smiles a little— _again_  with the small smiles,  _always_  with the small smiles, and Stevie still doesn’t  _understand_ —and he walks away.

 

Stevie goes home. Really, there’s nowhere else for Stevie to go, and that’s how he likes it; Stevie goes  _home._  Anfield is big and empty on the off nights, swallows him up whole like he is nothing without the Kop to lift him up, and he has to jimmy a lock to get inside, use a set of keys that were given to him  _just in case._  It’s the grass, he thinks; how they cut it. He wonders if he could cut his grass at home to be like that; wonders what else it could be because it’s not the grass, he knows it’s not the grass.

The last time he snuck into the stadium at night, he and Xabi kissed softly up against the goalpost, their bodies hardly touching because it made what came after—what came later—all that much better.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that rot,” Stevie had said.

“My heart’s already as fond as it gets,” Xabi said, and he leaned in, kissed Stevie on his bottom lip as Stevie smiled, small but with teeth, because Xabi was always saying things like that and Stevie never knew how to respond.

This time around, though, Anfield is quiet and Stevie is alone. He thinks, maybe, that Fernando might like to see the pitch at night, or Dirk; they might like to see how empty Anfield is when the people are gone.

And then,  _No,_  he thinks.  _They wouldn’t like that._

He doesn’t like it either, anymore.

 

The thing that most people don’t seem to realize—the thing that  _Xabi_  doesn’t seem to realize—is that losing at Liverpool is better than winning anywhere else.

Stevie gets the highlights on tv and he sees Madrid win, sees Xabi score, sees all the big name people that Xabi plays with now, and then he goes to Anfield and he doesn’t win, he doesn’t score, and all the big names are looking to leave because it’s better to abandon ship than to go down with it.

Stevie knows that isn’t true. Stevie knows that Liverpool will never go down, and that if it does, it’s better to go down with it, because going down a Red is better than going up anything else. Xabi doesn’t seem to realize that, and so no matter how everything plays out between them, Stevie’s already won. He’s  _won._  Stevie will never walk alone, but Xabi? What’s he got?

 

Stevie wakes up one morning after a long week and he’s exhausted, so tired, just wants to sleep more than almost anything other than how badly he wants to be away. He thinks it’s hard, carrying an entire club and an entire city on his shoulders. He thinks,  _France._  Just like that:  _France._  He goes online and books a ticket for a few hours from then, and he doesn’t pack anything because he’s not staying. He wonders, vaguely, who has France; he doesn’t think he does, but he doesn’t think he gave it to Xabi, either. They could have just forgotten France. It could be neutral territory;  _theirs._  The thought makes Stevie’s heart go crazy, but he goes anyway. Xabi is probably busy in Madrid, and even if he isn’t, what are the odds he’ll pick France? He has half of the world to choose from.

Stevie thinks maybe it says something about him—them—that Xabi manages to find him in Paris, anyway. He’s sitting at a café eating a piece of  _mille crêpe_  when Xabi comes over and sits in the open chair across the small, two-person table.

Xabi asks, “What are you doing in France?” and Stevie is quick to snap, “It’s not yours.”

“It’s not yours, either,” Xabi says. He’s wearing sunglasses and Stevie can’t see his eyes.

“Maybe it should be,” he says.

Xabi smiles small—again,  _always_ — and says, “Stevie. Never happy with what you’ve got.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stevie asks.

“Nothing,” Xabi says. “Everything.”

“You’re full of shit,” Stevie tells him.

Xabi laughs, just a little bit, just barely at all. He says, “I know.”

They sit there in silence for a few minutes. Stevie looks at Xabi and maybe Xabi looks back; Stevie can’t tell because of the sunglasses. He thinks,  _This is okay,_  and he wants to tell Xabi to order a coffee, to stay a while, but then Xabi stands up, says, “Go home, Stevie. Get some rest.”

He walks away and Stevie calls out, “I want France!”

Xabi doesn’t answer.

Stevie orders coffee.

 

October rolls around and Liverpool loses to Chelsea; Stevie feels the loss somewhere in his chest and so he goes home and thinks,  _It shouldn’t be this hard. It never used to be this hard._

To keep himself busy, he empties his closet, makes a pile of everything that he doesn’t want anymore and adds to it until everything he owns is thrown on his bed, pants and shirts and ties and two watches. He finds a pair of cufflinks that used to belong to Xabi and he wants to laugh. He does laugh. They’re Xabi’s favorite pair, white gold and plain and so completely boring that Stevie’s heart flops a little; he’s excited.

Stevie puts the cufflinks on his dresser top and takes a picture of them with his phone. He sends it to Xabi, says to him,  _Finders, keepers._

Xabi says,  _That’s not on the list._  He’s terrible at this game.

Stevie puts everything back in his closet and goes downstairs to watch crap television.

 

Stevie feels different without Xabi around; not a bad different, just different, a bit like he’s a kid again and doesn’t quite know what to do. It feels like the first time he scored for Liverpool, on his stomach like Klinsmann, except for how it doesn’t feel like that at all.

Carra says to him, “Let’s go golfing this weekend, yeah?”

“Alright,” Stevie says. “Will you be able to finish this time?”

“Hey!” Carra says. “ _Hey!_  I did all eighteen last time!”

“No, you didn’t,” Stevie reminds him. It’s true, even though he’s mostly just shooting the shit because he can and because he wants to. “You got tired on the fifteenth and just made fun of me from the cart the rest of the way.”

“Yeah, well,” Carra says. Stevie waits for Carra to finish what he’s saying and when he doesn’t, Stevie laughs.

“Yeah, well?” he asks, and Carra just pulls a face, shrugs his shoulders like there’s nothing else for him to say. Stevie knows the truth; he knows that even doing only fifteen holes, Carra still figures himself something of a Tiger Woods. Stevie would say that he doesn’t know why he keeps Carra around, except for how Stevie knows exactly why he keeps Carra around.

 

That weekend, Stevie gets a postcard in the mail. It’s a picture of an impressive skyline, buildings as far back as the camera can see, and in the clouds it says,  _New York City._  Stevie’s never been. He doesn’t have to flip the postcard over to know what’s on the back, but he does anyways.

 _Wish you were here,_  it says in pen and in Xabi’s handwriting. Stevie starts three texts in response ( _You know New York is—_  and,  _Quit being so—_  and,  _I wish I was—_ ) but he doesn’t send any of them.

 

Pepe has this idea that everything has its ups and downs.

“It’s all peaks and valleys,” he says in the locker room. He’s giving the team a pep talk. “Peak: You’re playing for Liverpool. So quit complaining and do your job so I don’t have to do mine.”

The boys go wild at that, yelling and pointing and heckling Pepe up until the last minute, saying things like, “Valley: Being bald at twenty-seven, Reina!” and, “Actually, my dad said that peaks and valley thing all the time when I was little.”

After the match—one-nil, bad break, shouldn’t have happened but did—everyone is still loud but for a completely different reason. Someone in the stands thought it would be funny to throw a beach ball onto the pitch, and it turned what should have been an easy block into a Sunderland goal. It’s so ridiculous that Stevie has trouble believing it even happened.

When he gets out of the shower, there’s a text waiting for him. It’s a picture from Xabi, alternating sections of green, white, yellow and red. Stevie almost doesn’t know what it is, but at the top of the picture, in just a little sliver, is Xabi’s nose, his cheeks puffed out on either side. He’s blowing up a beach ball, and the message says,  _Terrible luck, mate._

Stevie texts back,  _I’m not your mate,_  and only regrets it once it's sent; that was the obvious reaction, the boring reaction. He makes up for it by ordering a plane ticket to Spain, to Madrid, for a few days of the winter break.

His mother will be crushed, but Fernando said he’d show him around, and that’s as close to what he wants as he’ll get.

 

On New Year’s Eve, Stevie goes to Carra’s and drinks a little more than he should and a little less than he wants. Carra puts his arms around Stevie’s shoulders and he says things that don’t really make much sense, things like, “Why are you doing this to yourself, Ste?” and “It’s not always about football.”

Stevie thinks that maybe, without him having to explain it, Carra understands. But then Carra says, “Just tell him you didn’t mean whatever you said; take it back,” and Stevie thinks,  _Nope. Way off the mark,_  because he did mean it and he doesn’t want to take it back, even if he could.

That night, after Glen jokingly tries to kiss him at midnight and Stevie drives home through the snow, he dreams about Anfield at night and about sharing it with Xabi.

Xabi wraps his hands around Stevie’s wrists and backs him up to the post; it’s cold down his spine, even though his shirt, and Stevie thinks,  _Yes,_  because he knows how this one goes.

Only then Xabi opens his mouth and says, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, right, Stevie?” and that’s not right at all; Stevie should be the one saying that. Shouldn’t Stevie be the one saying that?

“No,” Stevie says. “Turns out that’s just a bunch of shit.”

“I know,” Xabi says, and then he stretches the neck of Stevie’s t-shirt, bites down on his collarbone. Something about that makes Stevie freeze.

“Stop that,” he says, and Xabi does.

 

In Madrid, Fernando takes him out to dinner.

“Everybody loves this place,” he says. “Sometimes, after matches, I’d bump into Sergio here—Ramos, I mean. He loves their paella, but the best thing is their  _cocido madrileño._  It’s just like, a big stew. Really good.”

“I’ll have that then, I guess,” Stevie says, and that’s when Xabi walks in the door with a group of people. Stevie can tell the exact minute that Xabi notices them by the way his eyebrows shoot up, by the way his shoulders straighten out. Stevie just smiles at him over Fernando’s shoulder.  _Your turn._

Xabi comes over—he’s not the type to back down, Stevie knows that, that’s what he likes about all of this—and slides into their booth on Fernando’s side. He smiles, says, “Hey, Fernando,” and then to Stevie, “I thought we agreed.”

“Did we?” Stevie asks. Of course they did.

“I don’t have time for this,” Xabi says. He says goodbye to Fernando and goes back to his group.

Fernando asks, “What’s going on with you two?”

Stevie says, “Nothing.”

It’s the vicious truth.

 

At practice one day, Carra tells him, “You know, I think I’m gonna have to wear a short sleeved kit from now on.”

Stevie doesn’t get it. “Why?” he asks. “Want to show off your pale arms?”

Carra laughs and kicks lightly at Stevie’s shin; it barely hurts, and Stevie laughs even as he’s pushing Carra away and swinging his fist halfheartedly at Carra’s arm.

“Like your skinny little arms are any better,” Carra says. “But seriously—some kid on the street asked if I always wore the long sleeved kit because I had the Everton crest tattooed on my arm.”

“Don’t you, though?” Stevie asks. Carra kicks at his other shin this time and Stevie jumps away, laughs even more.

 

Stevie thinks he shouldn’t care at all—he  _doesn’t_  care at all—but for some reason he watches one of Xabi’s matches when he has a few free hours to spare. Madrid looks strong, Ronaldo up front and Ramos coming out farther and farther as the match goes on. Casillas looks strong between the posts—almost as strong as Pepe,  _almost,_  but Pepe is a wall, strong and solid and unstoppable even when the rest of the squad isn’t pulling their weight, and Casillas can’t match that, no one can—but Xabi’s making a poor showing. He makes Stevie feel momentarily crushed before he remembers that he shouldn’t care; Xabi left Liverpool, and so none of this matters to Stevie anymore. He remembers, though, remembers Xabi’s face as he went to take the penalty in Istanbul; Xabi was so nervous, so visibly terrified beforehand, and then afterwards, his face smushed into the grass as Stevie slid on his stomach towards him—like Klinsmann again, almost—his face split by a smile, mirroring Stevie's own, and the way Xabi whispered to him in bed that night, his mouth pressed to the skin of Stevie’s shoulder blade, _Would you have still wanted to kiss me if we had lost?_  and Stevie said into the pillow,  _I want to kiss you all the time, and football’s got nothing to do with it,_  Xabi’s smile against his skin.

Stevie remembers all of that as he watches Xabi get subbed off, and so he takes out his phone and he sends him a text.

 _You’re always looking for Kaká,_  he types,  _when Guti’s always open to your left._

He doesn’t hear back until hours later, long since the match has ended and the players have gone home.

 _Kaká plays where you played,_  Xabi says.  _You were always open even when you weren’t._

And Stevie doesn’t know what to say to that, because sometimes he looks for Xabi when only Lucas is there. He wonders if Kaká knows what he’s got.

Stevie sends back,  _Chin up. Next time. YNWA,_  before he has the chance to second guess it.

He regrets it by the time he’s getting ready for bed.

 

Stevie doesn’t hear from Xabi after that. He tries texting him once, a picture of Xabi’s marked-up copy of  _The Great Gatsby_  that he found under the bed and the words,  _Never fancied myself an avid reader, but cheers!_ Xabi doesn’t write back and Stevie doesn’t care.

Riise calls him, invites him to Norway when he gets a break to visit his football school. Stevie thinks that’s brilliant, that he’s doing that, and he says yes. Norway is on Xabi’s list—Stevie has both Sweden and Finland—but Stevie says yes anyways.

Doesn’t matter, either way; Xabi’s in Madrid the whole time, where he should be.

 

Xabi’s in Madrid until he’s not. Suddenly he’s in the Kop, sitting in Anfield like  _this_  is where he should be, and Stevie realizes,  _this is where he should be._

“Don’t look like that, mate,” Pepe says right after the players shake hands on the pitch. “It’s just Burnley and I’m your ace in the hole.”

“Sorry,” Stevie jokes, a bit because he’s suddenly, inexplicably nervous and a bit because he’s suddenly, inexplicably happy, “but we have Torres as our ace now. He’s from Spain, you know, so—”

“I’m from Spain!” Pepe interrupts.

“You called me mate,” Stevie tells him. “You’re English.”

He turns, smiling, and walks towards the center of the pitch. Pepe yells at his back, “ _¡Oye, cabrón!_  You score me a goal or this  _español_  will wring your neck!”

Stevie waves a hand over his shoulder without looking and notes absently how strange it is to have Xabi back but not  _back._  He scores a brace, both within five minutes of each other, and wonders if Xabi cheers for him. He doesn’t let himself look.

 

He doesn’t see Xabi after the match—

That’s a lie. He doesn’t see Xabi  _at Anfield_  after the match. Xabi comes to his house though, late, a bit past eleven. He stands on Stevie’s doorstep and smiles the way he always used to when Stevie forgot to buy condoms or rent a movie or lock the door on his way out: like he is tired and annoyed and knows what is coming but is there anyways.

This time, instead of saying, “Stevie, you said  _you_  were going to order dinner tonight,” he just says, “Stevie.”

And Stevie, on his part, realizes that what he says next is very important, could mean everything, although he’s not even sure what  _everything_  is.

“Xabi,” he says, and maybe that’s the wrong thing. It’s probably the wrong thing, based on Xabi’s face. He doesn’t know what the right thing is, or else he’d say it.

Xabi sighs and says, “Fine,” like he doesn’t know what else to say, either. “Norway was mine. We agreed that Norway was mine.”

“I take it back,” Stevie says. “Not Norway, I don’t—I take it back.”

Xabi looks at him like he’s not sure what to do with that.

“Can you do that?” he asks. “Can you take something like that back?”

“Yes,” Stevie says, although he doesn’t technically know if that’s true or not. Carra said he can, and Carra—so it’s probably not true.

“Me too, then,” Xabi says. “I take it back too. You were brilliant on the pitch today. Can I come in?”

“No,” Stevie says. “We’re going out.”

 

Anfield at night is so loud with Xabi standing next to him, filling up the space.

“I thought it was the grass,” Stevie says. “At first.” He doesn’t clarify; Xabi will understand.

“You know, I never thought that,” Xabi says. They’re standing close enough that their shirt sleeves brush even though their skin doesn’t.

“No?”

“No.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Stevie says. “Come back?”

“No,” Xabi says. “Come over?”

Stevie smiles a little and then bridges the gap, puts his elbow out enough to nudge Xabi.

“Can’t,” he says. “Madrid’s not on my list.”

Xabi laughs just a tiny bit and then kisses him on the corner of his mouth and just underneath his jaw. He runs his hands down Stevie’s sides. He whisper-sings, “Ste Gerrard, Gerrard.”

And Stevie’s  _missed_  this.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Truce" by The Dresden Dolls.


End file.
